


Sweet Spirit

by what_a_dork_fish



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Fluff, I cried while I was writing this btw so um I hope you like it, M/M, Necromancy, THIS! IS! A FLUFF FEST!, ghost jaskier, technically
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-06
Updated: 2020-04-06
Packaged: 2021-03-01 20:01:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,016
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23512819
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/what_a_dork_fish/pseuds/what_a_dork_fish
Summary: Jaskier may just be a ghost, but he still feels an unseemly amount of affection to a certain regular visitor to the abbey where Jaskier died...
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 114
Kudos: 503





	Sweet Spirit

**Author's Note:**

> no I'm serious I cried while writing this

Jaskier really couldn’t help it.

Everything seemed brighter when Geralt was near. The clouds parted, the sun shone harder, the wind kicked up deliciously. And Jaskier’s heart always leapt, his mouth always turned up into a smile, and he always wanted to run to Geralt and forget whatever task he was supposed to be doing.

But if he did that, the Abbot would kick him out, and Jaskier would never see Geralt.

Jaskier wasn’t supposed to be solid. He’d been a traveling bard, heavily injured on the road, who had managed to crawl to the abbey doors and call for help. The monks hadn’t been able to save him. But they’d kept his lute, cleaned it up and set it gently in a storeroom. They hadn’t known his spirit had stubbornly clung to the lute, desperate to always be with it, until a young monk had tried to play it and Jaskier had come roaring out to tell him off for trying to play it without tuning it properly.

Over the years—many, many years—Jaskier had grown more solid, and now, if one were to look at him in the sun, he was only a _little_ transparent. He frightened visitors quite badly, sometimes. He never meant it, though. Ghosts aren’t _always_ malicious.

But Geralt had known immediately that he was a ghost. And Geralt had only blinked when he first saw Jaskier hazy in the sun, then said something along the lines of he’d never seen a ghost with such clear edges and Jaskier was certainly a first.

Geralt was a Witcher. He wasn’t supposed to stay in one place. But he visited Jaskier often—just Jaskier. No matter how many generations lived and died at this abbey, Geralt came to see Jaskier. It had gotten to the point where Jaskier could _feel_ Geralt’s imminent presence for days before, and always got clearer, more opaque, more energetic. He would rush around cleaning and putting up flowers that he knew Geralt liked and airing out and setting up the guest room that had been given over to the Witcher, and when he was done with all that he would push up his spectral sleeves and do any other chores asked of him. The older monks were always used to him; the younger ones would be startled and a little unsettled.

And then Geralt would stop in for a few days and everyone would know why Jaskier was acting like a loon in love. Because he was.

Geralt brought news, which was quite welcome in this quiet, out-of-the-way corner of the world. And he always helped as much as he could, and gifted books to the abbey, and spent many quiet hours in the library reading. Jaskier would usually sit with him and quietly strum his lute, because as much time as Geralt had, Jaskier had more.

Jaskier knew the moment Geralt passed through the abbey doors. He couldn’t drop the laundry, though, not when the poor young man carrying the other end was struggling so much. But as soon as they had set the tub down, Jaskier turned and bolted inside, brushing past and through his housemates like a breath of cool breeze and the scent of poppies.

Geralt liked poppies. He said he did, at least. And when Jaskier stuck poppies in his hair (they didn’t used to grow in this part of the world before Jaskier died here), Geralt didn’t mind.

Finally, turning the last corner, Jaskier tumbled into the receiving hall. The Abbot turned from greeting Geralt and glared at Jaskier, who gave him a sketchy bow and then ran up to Geralt and hugged him. Geralt did not return the hug. That was normal. Jaskier was just glad to feel his warmth, so much stronger than the sun.

“You were gone for _ages_!” Jaskier scolded as he let go, but he couldn’t help smiling at Geralt’s wry expression. “Decades, Geralt! _Decades_! You’re lucky I like you or I would’ve gone out looking for you and had to bash you with a stick!”

“As if you could get near with just a stick,” Geralt snorted, pushing Jaskier’s chest to drive him back a few steps. Jaskier didn’t mind, delighted as always that Geralt never just passed right through him, like normal living beings did. Geralt had theorized it was because he himself wasn’t all the way living either; Jaskier had argued it was just that Geralt had more life in him than a human. “Abbot, I apologize. I bring a work by the philosopher Yennefer of Vengerberg; your predecessor enjoyed her writing, but I couldn’t get here in time.”

The Abbot nodded gravely. “Thank you, Geralt of Rivia,” he said, taking the carefully-wrapped book from Geralt. “If you would like, the bathing room is free, and lunch will be soon.”

“I would be grateful, Abbot.”

As soon as the Abbot turned away, Jaskier skipped forward to link his arm with Geralt’s and ask, “How’s Ciri?”

Geralt smirked with pardonable pride. “She’s caught herself another alliance,” he said. “The kings of the East have agreed to join the Conventional Agreements. Soon the continent will be a more peaceful place.”

Jaskier beamed. He’d met Queen Cirrilla twice; once when she was barely twenty and had come with her adoptive father to see the ghost he was such good friends with, and once when she was thirty-eight and going on her final round of the continent before returning permanently to her court. She had grown gracefully, and had smiled at Jaskier as she would a dear friend. He had been happy to see her—she was a wonderful young woman, after all, clear-sighted and strong-willed—but that happiness was small compared to the utter glee of Geralt handing him new sheet music and asking him to play it for them.

Jaskier talked all the way to the bathing room, telling Geralt about the year’s harvest and how some other travelers had given him sheet music and that he had seen a flying horse one night and it had _not_ been an illusion, because he was a _ghost_ and those things didn’t work on him. He pestered Geralt for tales while the bath was filled and while Geralt peeled off his traveling-clothes, but only when Geralt was fully in the tub and relaxing in the warm water did he finally oblige. Jaskier sat on the floor, crossed his arms on the edge of the tub, and listened intently. Geralt hadn’t shaved in a while; his face was scruffy and his hair was a little shorter than before. He looked tired.

At lunch, Jaskier sat across from Geralt and talked to him. The other monks and visitors watched them both warily, the ghost and the Witcher. Geralt didn’t talk much, but he could carry a conversation—only with Jaskier, though. Living humans made him uncomfortable. But Jaskier was fine. Which was strange, but Jaskier wasn’t complaining.

Geralt went straight to the room Jaskier had set up for him, and fell into the bed with a bone-deep sigh. Jaskier fussed with the flowers in their vase across the room, then promised, “I’ll make sure your clothes get washed,” and whisked away, buoyant and barely touching the ground he was so glad Geralt was back.

~~~\0/~~~

Geralt hadn’t realized how much he missed the abbey until he was back within its walls, smelling the peace and comfort that lay in thick swathes within the compound. He hadn’t realized how much he’d missed Jaskier until he’d smelled poppies.

He’d never liked flowers before he got to know Jaskier. They were plants, they had a scent, sometimes they were helpful when making medicines or poisons and you had to be careful which was which. But he hadn’t even known what poppies were before he came here, tired and grimy and hoping they would have work for him, or would let him sleep in the barn. The scent had been everywhere, and when the ghost had come to meet him, it had been even stronger.

He smiled faintly as Jaskier promised to get Geralt’s clothing washed, and promptly skipped right through the door. He wasn’t sure, but he thought Jaskier was more vibrant, more… solid, than last time.

The wish tingled under his skin, eager to meet Jaskier. But Geralt wasn’t sure yet…

He fell asleep.

When he woke, it was midnight, and Jaskier was standing at the window, staring at the moon. He had often told Geralt that he wanted to be in the meadows and plains away from the abbey, so he could see the stars and moon better; but he was bound to the grounds, and his lute. Geralt watched the thoughtful, wistful expression on Jaskier’s semi-transparent face, and wondered if it were time.

No. He had to ask first.

“Do you want to leave?”

Jaskier blinked, and turned to look at Geralt, and no, it wasn’t Geralt’s imagination; he became more solid and real when he looked at Geralt, and even though he didn’t cast a shadow on the floor, there were shadows on his face.

“What do you mean?” Jaskier asked curiously, tilting his head. “Leave the room? I’d rather not, unless you want me to.”

“No.” Geralt sat up, and turned to him, his feet hitting the cold floor and his nose getting an even stronger whiff of poppies. “Leave the abbey.”

Jaskier blinked again, surprised. Then… he looked unhappy. “Well, yes. I want to… travel. I miss it. Even with all the pain and misery of the road, it was exhilarating. Gods, Geralt, I miss feeling a thunderstorm in spring, when it’s cold and stinging but when it passes, the world smells like green and growth and love.”

Geralt had never heard this much from Jaskier. Never this much detail. “You said you wanted to see the stars,” he reminded Jaskier softly.

“Yes.” Jaskier’s eyes went to the window again, and there was raw longing on his face. “I want to see the sky.”

Geralt stood, and walked over, and very hesitantly, put his hands on Jaskier’s arms. “What if there was a way to leave?” he asked, and the wish tingled more, jubilant that he was so close to letting it free.

Jaskier looked at him in confusion. He smelled so strongly of poppies and sadness and the endless softness of death. Geralt had never appreciated the smell of calm ghosts before Jaskier. “What are you talking about?” Jaskier asked. “There is no way for me to leave. I’m bound here until… something happens.”

“You don’t have to be.” Geralt took a deep breath, and asked, “Can I kiss you?”

Jaskier’s eyes widened, and his lips parted, and no, it was not the moonlight making him seem to glow in full color. “But, but you’ll pass right through,” he stammered.

“No I won’t. Not this time. Please?”

Jaskier hesitated only a moment, then nodded vigorously. Geralt raised his hands and cupped Jaskier’s face in his hands—like cool mist, but he could hold it in his hands easily—and bent his head and kissed Jaskier.

The wish surged through the press of their lips, and Jaskier gasped and grabbed Geralt’s shirt—with solid, _living_ hands.

Geralt wasn’t sure how long the kiss lasted, because they stayed pressed together long after Jaskier was brought back to life. When they finally broke apart, there was a definite flush to Jaskier’s cheeks, and his eyes were bright in a way no mere spirit’s could be, and slowly, he began to smile.

“Geralt,” he said, calmly, but with joy bubbling up under his tone, “I love you.”

“I love you too. Will you come with me? We can go to the sea and watch the stars.”

Jaskier laughed, and kissed him again. “Yes. _Yes_.”

~~~\0/~~~

Poppies still grow at that abbey, and nowhere else in that part of the world. But you’ll never hear a distant laugh and feel a cool breath of poppy-scented air in its halls.

The ghost ran away at night with the Witcher, his lute on his back, to see the stars at the seashore.

**Author's Note:**

> *hands you the button to comment* *hands you the button to comment* *hands you the button to comm


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